


Color-coded Tyranny

by witch0000



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Curiosity killed the cat, F/M, Gen, Serena wants to know, she hates the color teal, toxic marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26351416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witch0000/pseuds/witch0000
Summary: The colors worn by various castes in Gilead society are pretty interesting. I can picture Serena--stylish and beautiful--getting sick and tired of wearing the same damn color--day in, and day out. The only variations were in the cloth and the stitching details, but otherwise, the dresses worn by the Wives were the same. So she starts thinking about all the colors worn in Gilead, and she has a question for Fred. And it involves the first Offred.
Relationships: Commander Fred Waterford/Serena Joy Waterford
Kudos: 13





	Color-coded Tyranny

You are wearing your favorite dress. Well, perhaps favorite is too strong a sentiment. You are wearing the dress that you dislike the least. They never consulted you on the color scheme. Although they got it right with the Marthas. Those earthy hues blended in easily, making them, as intended, invisible and unidentifiable. The Aunts, carefully chosen for their ability to be both ruthless and compassionate in the same breath, were perfectly suited for the severe, military-brown colors. You find yourself grateful that there had been but one role for you, and like everyone else, there had been no real choice. Just a perceived aura of power that came with your position, which you grew and wielded to gain the respect of your peers, and the fear of your subordinates.

The dress was stylishly cut—if you were a 1950’s housewife. But the color. You never thought you could hate a color as much as you hated the color of your cloth prison. Before you had been forced to don the uniform--indicating to every single member of Gilead society, just exactly who you were in the food chain--you had never given teal a second thought. You certainly couldn’t recall a single instance where, in the days when manner of dress was not enforced by martial law, you’d ever been drawn to any article of clothing that was the exact shade of teal that Gilead conscripted you to wear. And now, it was your only option. And it was not only the dress, but the shoes matched as well, along with the long gloves, the capes, and the hats. They loosened the reins a bit on the undergarments. Praise be they were not as dreadful as the completely unattractive and frumpy garments the Handmaids were forced to wear under their red robes. And at least they were not teal, but a different shade of blue with a hint of purple in the dye. They were modest, of course, but not dissimilar to undergarments available to you pre-Gilead—although your taste had been a bit more sensual and flattering to your still trim, attractive figure. There had been a near revolt when teal tights had originally been incorporated into the uniform. It was the one time that you can recall all the Wives standing together and refusing to accept that bit of teal overkill. Rather than having household discord, the Commanders agreed to ‘natural’ colored stockings. They would have been called ‘nude’ before Gilead, but clearly, that word was no longer appropriate.

As vexed as you are by the color you are forced to wear, day in and day out, you find yourself continually puzzled at the costume created for the Handmaids. The color was startling, and the ‘wings’ disturbing. You’d dared to ask your husband once, why the Sons of Jacob had chosen the color red for Handmaids. You’d waited for the right moment--when he was in a light-hearted mood, and you were sharing a drink after dinner--almost able to pretend, for a few moments, that your life was as it once was. You’d been flirting with him, and he’d been receptive, running his fingers lightly along the top of your hand as you let it lay on the sofa between you. Physical affection between the two of you was rare, as he was afraid of inviting sin into your household. The Sons of Jacob had, at some point, decided that husbands and wives must not have sex for any reason other than for the purpose of procreation. And the fact that Fred would not touch you the way he used to—with passion, and urgency, and lust, and greed, and tenderness, and need—filled you with such rage that you had shut yourself off almost completely from any sexual feelings of any sort where your husband was concerned. So you felt his light touch and stifled a shudder. That would not get you the answer to the question that plagued you.

Because you loved the color red. It looked good on you, in moderation--like a white skirt suit with silk red blouse, accessorized with a pair of red high heels and a matching purse. In the afternoons when you laid down on your bed, ostensibly to rest, you couldn’t resist remembering the days when you’d been allowed to choose what you wore. When you could page through a fashion magazine, while you waited for your appointment with the hair stylist. When you could read one of those silly quizzes about how to make your man hungry for you. Had you only known that those easy days of freedom would become but a distant memory for you, you wonder if you’d have made different choices.

You wanted to know—you needed to know--why red was chosen for the Handmaids’ garb. You had your thoughts, of course. Because red was such an intense color—a color of extremes. It was the color of power, the color of passion, the color of desire, the color of fertility. It was also the color of danger, the color of violence, the color of anger, and the color of blood. And any one or combination of these could be the reason that the Handmaids glided through the streets of Gilead, two by two, in identical red dresses, and if the weather warranted, red capes and long gloves. But somehow, you thought, the Sons of Jacob were just not that romantic in their thought processes. They wouldn’t connect the color of blood with that of a fertile woman—the Handmaids’ role in society. You had to know.

Your need to know was more than just a prurient interest. Currently, your house had no Handmaid. Aunt Lydia had thought it prudent to let a period of time pass between your first, and your next. Particularly since there had been the ‘unpleasant business’—as Aunt Lydia referred to—the suicide of the first Offred. You wondered, often, if the color red had anything to do with why she took her life. Or if it was simpler than that—that she just couldn’t stand her existence in your household, and the terrible things that you had to do together. It would likely be another few months before another Handmaid was assigned to the Waterford household, and you were grateful for the respite. Having a woman living in your house whose sole function is to be fucked by your husband one evening a month—for the purposes of procreation only—made the bile rise in your throat, and made the fine hairs on your arms and the back of your neck stand up. Oh, it was a heavy cross to bear from your perspective, and surely, every Wife would agree with you. But Aunt Lydia had counseled you to consider the sacrifices made by the Handmaid in order to provide a child to your household. You knew as well as anyone that these women were not volunteers. That they’d been ‘chosen’ because they’d given birth before, and had proven their fertility. You knew that the first Offred had been hunted down and taken captive. That her child had been taken from her, and adopted into another Commander’s household. You tried to do as Aunt Lydia advised—to imagine, for just a moment, how that must feel. To be a young mother, raising a child, and suddenly have that child ripped away from you as you are thrown into the world of Red Center—where women are beaten, broken, and brainwashed—and Handmaids rise from the ashes.

So you thought you would ask him, after you’d complimented him on some of his recent “wins” among the commander peerage. You couldn’t go overboard, or he would surely suspect something else. Your husband loved to talk about himself. And when you wanted something from him, that was your first go-to strategy.

In the course of flirting with him, you mention that while you adore the color teal, and you are so grateful that it’s the color you are blessed to wear every day, you wonder about the choice of the red for the Handmaids. It was so jarring—so garish, really. And their calling was so sacred. You asked if he knew why red was chosen for the Handmaids, when really, they could have chosen any color.

His answer was not the poetic one you sought. His answer was more pedestrian and utilitarian than you could have imagined.

“My dear, we chose red for the Handmaid’s because it makes it impossible for them to hide. It allows us to keep our eye on them at all times. The color stands out like a sore thumb among the greens of the Marthas’, the gray of the econowives’, the teals of the commanders’ wives and of course, the browns of the Aunts’. And in the unfortunate instance that a Handmaid should decide to flee, it’s much easier to find a single Handmaid in a sea of people, and capture her quickly.”

You say to him “Of course! That makes the most sense, and what a wise choice of color it is.” You quickly change the subject to the topic of this evening’s meal, which was, by Gilead’s spartan standards, quite exceptional. He agreed, and you noticed that his fingers had stopped stroking your hand, so you lifted it from the sofa cushion, and reached for a cigarette. He lit it gallantly for you, then took his leave to retire to his study.

Next time, you think—you’ll ask him about the wings.


End file.
